


five ways canon might have happened

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Cutting, Dogs, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Implied Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Amara/Dean Winchester, Not My Fault, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Sam Winchester is Not Amused, Self-Harm, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one where GF 'verse and canon collide.</p><p>(aka, this is how the author chooses to interpret five canonical events in relation to this 'verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	five ways canon might have happened

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brokenlittleboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/gifts).



 

_1\. Cold Oak (S2)_

The crossroads demon swipes her tongue across his lips; Dean flinches backwards, nearly stumbles. He wants to spit, wants to brush his teeth, gargle with mouthwash for half an hour, vomit, but he looks at the demon, meets her red eyes, and asks, "It's done?" 

"One year," the demon purrs. "Make it count, Dean Winchester." 

Dean doesn't waste time; he leaves the demon, gets in the Impala, high-tails his way back to Sam. His heart's racing and he's too afraid to hope that the demon's good on her word, that he'll find Sam alive and whole, still can't hardly believe he gets a year with her when he was prepared to go now. He doesn't bother parking well, probably leaves the car taking up three spaces; he runs inside, door slamming open, and feels faint with relief. 

Sam's standing up, studying his back in the mirror as best he can. The instant he sees Dean, Sam turns, closes the space between them, holds Dean as tight and close as Dean's holding him. Jesus fuck, Sam's breathing, his heart's beating, they get another year, twelve priceless months. 

"How long?" Sam asks. Dean lets Sam go -- reluctantly -- and puts on his best puzzled face. Before he can say anything, though, Sam's shoulders drop. "Jake killed me," Sam says, and hearing it like that, having the last three days in his memory as vibrant as they are, makes Dean feel that panic again, that pain, like half of his soul was being ripped away from him. "Otherwise I'd be in a hospital, or hooked up to an IV, or there'd be meds around. But there's nothing, so I was dead, which means you did something. Ninety-nine percent of all resurrection deals require a life for a life. How long've you got?" 

"Sometimes I wish you weren't so smart," Dean mutters. He takes a deep breath, can't meet Sam's eyes as he says, "A year. I've got a year." 

Sam takes that in, swallows, finally nods, just once, and slowly. "We'll figure something out. I'm not letting this happen, Dean." 

"I welch on the deal, you die," Dean says, and he's got his hands on Sam's shoulders, fingertips digging in and no doubt leaving bruises for later. "And I ain't gonna watch that again, Sam." He loosens his hold, licks his lips. "Please don't make me watch that again." 

"You think it's gonna be any easier for me?" Sam asks. "Jesus, Dean. You should've just -- I'm not worth -- _why_ ," and he sounds so, so very broken. 

Dean drops his hands to Sam's hips, pulls Sam close, says, "You are, sweetheart. There's no point to this without you. I -- I can't do it without you." 

Sam lets out an exhale. "Yeah," he says. "You can." 

"I don't want to," Dean replies, instantly. Sam makes a sound that might be disbelief, might be indignation, might be anger. "We got a year," he says, before Sam can say anything else. "We'll make the best of it." 

"Jesus, Mary, and _Joseph_." 

Dean winces, lets go of Sam to see Bobby standing in the open doorway. "Ta-da?" he says, aiming for humour and knowing instantly that he's missed by a mile. 

"What'd you do, Dean?" Bobby asks. "What the hell kinda stupid thing've you done?" 

"He gets a year," Sam says. He's talking to Bobby but still looking at Dean. There's such a mix of emotions in Sam's eyes that it takes Dean a moment to catalogue them: anger, relief, amusement, sorrow, fondness, terror, love -- so much love. 

Bobby sighs. "None of you Winchesters got a lick of sense, not one brain cell between you," he says. "All right. Let's pick up and head out. We have a lot of books to read." Bobby shakes his head, turns to leave, muttering something about calling a few of his friends. 

When it's just the two of them, Dean and Sam look at each other, hold each other's gaze. 

"I'm not sorry," Dean says. "I'd do it all over again." 

"I know," Sam says. 

 

_2\. Ruby (S4)_

Dean lets out a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and knocks on the door. Bobby's right next to him, mutters, "What the hell?" when an unfamiliar woman answers the door. Dean can't be mad; he was thinking the exact same thing. 

"Sam," he says. "Where's Sam?" 

"Abs, pay the fucking man and bring the food in, I'm --." 

Sam stops mid-sentence and practically mid-step -- female Sam, nothing-but-muscle Sam, Dean's Sam. She'd come around the corner, towel-drying her hair, speaking before she'd gotten a good look at who was at the door. Once she did, she turned pale as a ghost and dropped the towel. 

Abs -- the woman at the door, what the hell kind of name is that anyway -- takes a few steps back, glances over her shoulder at Sam. "You know these people?" 

Dean can't make sense of the look Sam gives Abs; that worries him. He's always been able to read Sam, has always known Sam better than Sam's known herself, half the time; seeing her like this, eyes blank but still focused, muscles tensed, an unfamiliar expression on her face, it makes him a little nervous. 

"Bobby, is it really him?" Sam asks. She hasn't moved and neither has anyone else. Dean longs to go to his sister, take her in his arms, hold her and kiss her and fuck her. He doesn't, though, can't, not with the way Abs is watching him and Sam's looking at Bobby, her whole expression a picture of desperation. "Bobby?" 

"It's him," Bobby says, shifts on his feet. "Ran through all the tests I could think of: devil's trap, salt, silver, cold iron, blessed sage, holy water; you name it, I did it. But I might not be me, either." 

Sam scoffs, says, "Of course you're you," like there's not a doubt in her mind. She takes a step forward, eyes fixed on Dean. 

Abs lets out a sigh, says, "I guess I'm not sticking around for pizza, huh," and slides from behind the door to in front of it. "Call me, Sam." 

"Right," Sam says. "First thing tomorrow." She still hasn't taken her eyes off Dean and Abs rolls her eyes, brushes past Dean with an under-the-breath comment Dean can't quite make out. 

"Think I might head down to the other room," Bobby says. 

Dean wonders if he's uncomfortable because Sam's female and he's known about the spell but never actually seen her like this or if it's because he can read the tension simmering between Sam and Dean, knows that the minute either of them move, they won't be separated again. "We'll come get you for dinner," Dean says, and Bobby leaves with an nod.

"Who was that?" Dean asks, once it's just the two of them, him still outside in the hallway, her still frozen in position, wearing nothing but a sports bra and some lycra shorts that do nothing to hide the curve of her hips, the muscles in her thighs. "You moved on? I mean, I guess I can't be mad you found someone else but I thought it'd take a little longer."

"Oh, fuck you," Sam spits out. The tears shimmering in her eyes are a harsh counterpoint to the words. "You think I'd _ever_ be able to -- god, I knew you were an idiot but this is just -- _fuck_."

He wants to laugh in relief but there's still something in Sam's sadness that's striking the wrong note. Dean finally, _finally_ , steps inside the motel room, closes the door behind him. 

"How are you here?" Sam whispers. "Who -- how, Dean?" 

"Does that matter right now?" Dean asks. He gives her a little laugh, doesn't mean it at all. He thinks, suddenly, that as easy as she's always been for him to read, he's the same way for her. What if she can see the -- what if she guesses that he --. Sam wipes her eyes with the back of her hand; Dean sees three neat little rows of scars on the underside of her forearm and feels his heart skip a beat. "Sweetheart," he says. "What're -- what've you been doing?" 

Sam laughs, a bitter, mocking laugh, and the tears fall free and fast as she says, "Stupid things. So many stupid things." 

Dean can't take it anymore, not with Sam right _there_ after forty years of hell. He closes the distance between them, hugs her tight, murmurs, "Me too. But we'll figure it out. We're back together; we can fix anything when we're together." 

"God," Sam says. "I really fucking hope so." 

 

_3\. The Cage (S6)_

Dean can only stand in the doorway and blink, can only mutter, "I've had too much to drink," can only feast his eyes on the hallucination in front of him. 

"No," Sam says, then purses his lips, says, "Well. Possibly. But you're not imagining me. I'm really here." 

Six feet, four inches of Sam, with his sharp cheekbones and jawline thrown into stark relief by the light from the bar. Hair, eyes, tattoos on his arms but no scars, broad shoulders and impossibly tiny waist for a man his size -- and, Dean's guessing, dick and balls hiding inside of his jeans. 

Fuck, they're gonna have to find that witch again.

Dean steps out, lets the door slam behind him. "What's the catch?" he asks, still suspicious, trying not to get his hopes up, trying not to let the sob of desperate relief making a home in his throat get any closer to his mouth. 

"I came back male," Sam says, "and I don't have a soul. At least, I know that something is wrong with me and that's the best I can come up with until we, I dunno, do a spell or find a psychic." 

"You don't have a soul," Dean echoes. Sam nods, stands there loose and easy in his body, the way he's only ever looked when -- "How'd you get out? Who brought you back, Sam?" 

Sam shrugs, tucks an errant piece of hair behind his ear. "No idea. Whoever it was brought back the original Samuel, too. There's a whole crew of Campbells hunting; they want me to join up." Sam tilts his head, just a little, and grins -- a shadow of expression, more muscle memory than happiness. "Told them I wasn't gonna do anything without you."

Dean shakes his head, can't think beyond the sentence burrowing deep inside of his mind and not letting up, _Sam's back, Sam's back, Sam's back_ , repeating echo of wonder and disbelief. He can't help himself; he grabs Sam, pulls him close, tells him, "I don't care how you came back, Sam, I'm just -- oh god, _sweetheart_ , I --" 

Dean stops there, can't form words, can't think them, not with Sam in his arms. Jesus, it's been five weeks since Sam jumped into the Cage and now he's _here_ , he's _back_ , and -- he's a _him_. 

Sam's the one that disentangles them, steps backwards just enough to put himself out of hugging range. That, more than anything, tells Dean that, yeah, something is wrong with Sam. Sam's never been the one to end a hug before. There's a faint trace of discomfort on his face and Dean reaches out, runs his thumb over the furrows on Sam's forehead, and feels most of his newfound relief start to crumble when Sam flinches at the initial touch. 

"Tell me," Dean says, no give in his voice. 

His Sam would've rolled her eyes, would've told him to stop being so bossy, something, anything like that. This Sam just twitches an eyebrow and says, "I don't remember much from the Cage but I know that I don't really like it when people touch me. Don't know why for sure but I have some guesses." 

Jesus christ. 

Dean's the one who steps back this time. "Shit, I'm -- Sam, I didn't mean to --" 

"I know," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "But you're not people. It'll take me a while to get used to it again but you don't have to hold back, Dean. Just be patient with me." 

"Patient, right," Dean says. "I can do that. Okay. Uh. I have a room, if you -- we need to make a plan: get you your soul back, get your body fixed, figure out what to do about our family suddenly appearing, find out who brought you back and why. Any preference where we start?" 

Sam clearly thinks about it before he says, "My soul. I can -- this isn't how I am, I know that. I should be more uncomfortable with this," and he gestures at his body, "and I should care more about the family, care more about why I'm not in the Cage anymore. I know I should but I don't. So it makes sense to fix that first." 

"Soulless you pretty much runs on logic, huh," Dean says, slowly. "Okay, I can work with that. But we're both gonna need sleep before we try and figure this out." 

"I don't sleep," Sam says, like it's nothing, like it's just a fact that he doesn't care about at all and barely finds worth mentioning. 

Dean lets out a breath. 

Fuck. 

 

_4\. Purgatory (S8)_

Once Benny's back in his own body and making his way further south, Dean figures he'll head to the cabin, see if he can pick up any sign of Sam, maybe get in touch with the hunters in Bobby's rolodex and see if he's missed anything big. He's tried every phone number for Sam he remembers and all of them get transferred over to a dopey-sounding guy who only identifies himself as 'Garth.' 

It takes him a few days of hitchhiking, hot-wiring cars, walking long hours to exhaust himself; his nerves are on edge the entire time and he's come close to killing at least half a dozen people just because he's wound so tight. A year in purgatory would do that a man, Dean thinks. He hopes it won't take long to settle back down to normality.

He gets to the cabin and takes in the beat-up old truck parked outside, the unkempt vegetation, the pile of bones and balls and rope almost right in front of the door. Dean creeps closer, listening, doesn't hear anything, but the second he's within touching distance of the door, two dogs start barking. Both of them sound big, one of them is growling more than barking, and Dean's instantly moving to crouch behind the pickup, finding a good eye-line to the door. 

The front door opens and Sam -- oh thank god, it's Sam -- says, "See? There's nothing here. Come on, guys; I'm the one that sees things, remember? I keep you around because you _don't_." 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, standing up and heading toward his sister before his mind tells him to. 

Sam sees him, drops the hold she has on the two dogs' collars, and they come barrelling out at him. One of them's massive, some kind of mastiff, Dean guesses, and it's missing one eye. This dog circles Dean, goes behind him like he's getting ready to herd him. The other, the one that's growling, that's stopped two feet away from Dean and keeps snapping at him, looks like a German shepherd mix of some kind.

"I don't think your dogs like me," Dean says, once he's determined that they aren't going to attack him, not right away. He looks up, anger leaving his face when he sees Sam, really takes her in. She looks _awful_ : greasy, uncombed hair, bloodshot eyes, pale skin, she's lost at least forty pounds, maybe more, and her hands are trembling. "Sam? Would you call them off, please?" 

"What are you?" she asks. "What are -- how _dare_ you." She leans to the side, behind the wall, comes back with a sawed-off and aims it right at Dean. "Tell me what the fuck you are. _Now_."

He licks his lips, mouth and throat dry -- god, how ironic it would be to have made it out of purgatory only to die at his sister's hands. "It's me," Dean says, holding up his hands as if to say he's unarmed, he's no threat. "I swear, I'll do whatever test you want -- hell, I'll do all of them -- but it's me." He sees the gun waver and isn't sure if it's because she's exhausted or because she believes him. "Please, sweetheart." 

Sam inhales sharply, the gun steadies, and she narrows her eyes, an action that only highlights how tired they are, how deep the bags under them are. "Shell," she calls, and the dog behind Dean backs off, goes trotting over to Sam. Well-trained, not that Dean would expect anything else, though he's a little concerned that Sam called off the slightly nicer one, not the one that still looks like it'd love to rip Dean's throat out. He does feel a little better when Sam drops to one knee, ruffles her hand through Shell's scruff, and asks, "You can see him? What's he smell like, huh? What've we got this time, baby girl?" 

Shell licks Sam's cheek then goes inside, comes back out a couple minutes later with Dean's leather jacket in her mouth. She drops the coat at Sam's feet, sits on her haunches. Sam nearly falls over. 

Dean makes a move to help her, to make sure she's all right, but the dog in front of him won't let him go anywhere, keeps him from getting any closer to Sam. "Listen, asshole," he hisses. "That's my fucking sister over there. Back the fuck off." 

He's caught in a staring contest with the dog until he hears a choking sob. His eyes immediately shoot over to Sam, who's sitting on her ass, shotgun across her lap, one arm wrapped around Shell. She's still looking at Dean, though, and what's left of his heart after purgatory breaks at the way she has to clear her throat before she murmurs, "C'me here, Clo."

The German shepherd snaps its teeth one more time, then lopes back to Sam, sprawls out on the ground right in front of her, over the tips of Sam's feet, eyes fixed on Dean.

"Please don't tell me they share the bed," Dean says.

 

_5\. Amara (S11)_

Dean bundles Sam up, takes her back to the bunker and tucks her in bed, leaves her with the dogs just long enough to make her a strong cup of tea and grab a bottle of whiskey. When he gets to the bedroom, Sam's not in bed. Dean nearly drops the mug and the bottle but he catches a glimpse of movement to his right. He turns, sees her huddled in the corner, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes wide but dry. Shelley's on her left, Chloe at her feet, and Dean approaches slowly. Sam watches him but she doesn't flinch; Chloe doesn't even lift her head, which means that Sam's not emotional enough for the dog to pick up on -- or she's feeling so much that the dog doesn't know how to react. 

He sits down on her right, offers her the mug, sets the whiskey down for later. Sam takes the tea, sips slowly, stares off into the distance. 

When she talks, it startles him. 

"It wasn't so bad," she says. "He didn't -- we took a field trip through my memories. He wanted me to say yes, Dean. He wanted to -- get back inside me." Dean can't believe his sister's saying this without shuddering, without vomiting. God knows he wants to. "I was tempted," she goes on. "He didn't lie; he knows how to stop Amara, and since you're -- with you --." 

"I'm glad you didn't," Dean says. "Amara and I have a connection, so what. It's not like I want it." 

"Why can't we just be happy?" Sam asks. "Why is there always more?" 

Dean aches for her, wishes he'd been there to stop her from going to the cage, wishes he'd been able to tell Lucifer to go fuck himself, wishes like anything that Amara hadn't spirited him away, hadn't kissed him, hadn't made him so compliant and willing in her hands. He's disgusted with himself, both for his reaction to her and for causing this in the first place. 

"We'll fix it," Dean says. He takes the mug from her hands, sets it on the floor next to the whiskey, takes her hand in his and traces his other fingertips over the phoenix around Sam's wrist. "We've made it this far. And after Amara -- there's nothing bigger than god, right? So once we deal with his sister, everything's gonna seem like a cake walk." 

Sam's hand, in his, clenches tight. "I want to get another tattoo," she says. 

Dean's confused, doesn't follow that leap of topic at all, but he says, "Okay. What're you thinking?" 

"A ring," Sam says. "Left ring finger. Celtic knots. I sketched one out a few years ago but I think it's time." Dean opens his mouth but before he says anything, Sam goes on. "It's not because I'm worried about you and Amara, or because of anything Lucifer said or did." She turns, looks at Dean, gives him a precariously delicate smile, and says, "It's time, I think. If you wanna." 

"That was a shit proposal," Dean says. 

Sam snorts, rests her cheek on Dean's shoulder. "Is that a yes?" 

Dean lets go of Sam's hand, wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulls her tight. The dogs both make unhappy noises as Sam shifts but they settle quickly, go back to sleep. "And you say I'm an idiot," he murmurs, presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Of course it's a yes. 'Bout time we made it official." 

She snuggles deeper into Dean's hold, leans her weight on him. They don't talk, not for a while. Sam's probably thinking a million things through and Dean's content to follow her lead tonight -- always, but especially tonight.

Finally, Sam says, "I don't know if I'm going to be able to sleep tonight."

"S'okay, sweetheart," Dean says. "I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
